After the Battle
by longliv98
Summary: AU where Percy died at the battle with Gaea. His friends, the whole of camp, and even the Romans are in mourning. Annabeth is inconsolable and Nico is MIA. However, after death, Percy is offered something that no mortal has ever received: the chance to come back, to save his friends, one last time. The catch: none of them can know he's there.
1. The Hero of the Gods

"I have to, Annabeth."

The words echo like gunshots in her head, biting and scratching and squirming their way into her thoughts, seeping in and poisoning them like venom.

"No, Percy, no! _Please,_ there _has_ to be another way!"

She remembered this part. Most of it is hazy and morphed with her grief, but this part is clear as Iris-message.

"There is no other way," he'd said, green eyes glinting, but not, she was shocked to find, with sadness. "Gaea wants me. This won't stop otherwise." He reached up and stroked her blood-splattered cheeks, a slight smile on his stupidly beautiful face. "I won't have to fight anymore, Annabeth. But you have to promise me one thing."

Her throat was in knots and she was so lost in the feeling of his thumb on her skin that she couldn't respond.

 _"You_ never stop fighting," he went on anyway. "Don't do anything stupid. Be _happy."_ His voice cracked with the last word and that's how she knew he was scared. For years, he'd been the brave one, the brick-wall, always fighting and cracking jokes and being kind. It was easy to forget that he was only a kid, as was she; they were only _sixteen._

For most people, the fear would drive them away, drive them down. Percy pushes back. He faces it. He doesn't let it destroy him.

Annabeth supposes he leaves that part for other things.

"No Percy!" she screams, finding her voice and clutching his hand. "Never again, remember? As long as we're together."

Another humorless smile. "Not this time, Wise Girl." He lets his hand slide down the edge of her face, leaving it to hang limply at his side. She only notices she's crying when she sees the glint of her tears on the side of his palm. "Tell my mom I love her," he said. "And . . . think of something cool, tell her I said it."

For a second, he hesitates and in Annabeth's dazed state, hope begins to unfurl in her chest like a Pegasus taking flight. Maybe he's doubting himself. Maybe he'll stay with her.

Her hope is shattered when he grabs her by the back of the neck and smashes his mouth into hers, pouring all the things he can't find words for into her lips through touch. The kiss tasted like ash and, per usual, sea salt, and blood, and goodbye.

Taking a step back, he nods behind her and she remembered suddenly that Jason and Frank had been there the whole time. They heard what Gaea said—only the most powerful half-blood could defeat her. But she would defeat him in turn.

Why weren't they stopping Percy?

Percy nods at them again and in an instant she is on the cold, black ground, only being able to see the curling, boiling sky. She screams his name over and over again, sobs it until she can't remember ever knowing any other word.

She sees his face one last time. The last words she hears before she knocks herself out kicking and screaming are in his lovely, ocean-wave voice.

"I love you. I'm sorry."

The shadows melt around him, and he is gone.

That's the last memory Annabeth Chase, daughter of Athena, will ever have of Percy Jackson, the Hero of the Gods.


	2. Blue Christmas

She clutches her Styrofoam cup to her chest, relishing in its warmth. The reek of nearly-spoiled coffee dances in the freezing air, every heaved breath from Annabeth's lungs crystalized in the atmosphere, hanging delicately before her eyes. Before, she might've found it beautiful.

The drum of her fingertips against the side of the cup echoes in the nearly-empty subway station. Her eyes, though dry for quite some time, still feel puffy and red, drowning in the seemingly endless stream of tears she's been struggling through for weeks. Since the battle with Gaea.

There had been no word from Poseidon, or any of the gods really, since the group had come back to Camp Half-Blood. Nico di Angelo had not been seen since Jason told him about Per—about the battle. Grey clouds had massed over the Camp, and for the first time since Percy had recovered the Golden Fleece, rain hammered to the ground, an echo of the grief that seemed to hang in every tree branch, dance in every gust of wind.

The Romans had stopped waging war against the Greeks. The statue was recovered, and they had declared peace. There was nothing really left to fight about. And, to top that off, Percy had been Roman praetor once. They'd admired him, just as the Greeks had. Some of them had chosen to stay at Camp Half-Blood.

They hadn't held a funeral for him yet, though. Annabeth had to tell his mother before that.

How was she going to live through saying those words? How?

It didn't matter how. She just had to.

The subway creaked into the nearly-vacant station (it was Christmas day, after all), and Annabeth climbed aboard, throwing what little coffee she had left into the trash as she climbed through the suspiciously stained metal doors.

She stared out the window, which didn't offer much view, as she was underground and zooming through a dark, poorly-lit tunnel. She thought of how fierce Percy always was in defending this city, even the gross small restaurants, cracked pavement, garbage-riddled streets, and, yes, grimy subways.

She felt her heart become still in her chest.

Percy's mother hadn't heard anything, from anyone, not yet. They all knew it needed to be done, and soon; it hung in the air like a thousand dark balloons, but no one ever made any effort to do anything about it. Grover, who'd visited Annabeth every day since the battle, is the one who clomped up to her and, horns turned down sadly, eyes drooping and hands clasped, suggested she be the one to tell her. Horribly, Annabeth hadn't even really thought of it until then. Her pain had been too big, eclipsing any and every other thought that could possibly have formed in her mind.

Not being able to think was not something Annabeth liked very much.

She pays close attention to the stops as they role past, fingers itching across the cool subway-wall beside her, counting the seconds and the broken beats of her heart.

One other person climbed on. He was a short business man with balding hair, a round, bulbous stomach, and a greasy handle-bar mustache. Annabeth, usually, would be wary of any stranger; the Mist was always difficult to see through, and any minotaur, harpy, sorceress, Cyclops, or other monstrous baddy could be hanging about. But now, she just couldn't muster up enough to care. She did feel around sloppily in her black, puffy jacket for her knife. Just in case.

But the man got off at the very next stop, looking nervously at his watch and wiping his sweaty brow on his sleeve. Annabeth relaxed into the seat.

When the subway finally pulled up to her stop, she took as much as she could getting off. She practically had to jump through the doors as they closed behind her.

Annabeth had bought an old recyclable cellphone, one that had a certain amount of minutes on it, that you could throw away when you were finished. Something about technology attracted monsters—and Annabeth's potent demigod blood did enough of that on its own. Still, she wanted to have a way to get in contact with Percy's mother, in case she wasn't home, or if Annabeth got lost. Of course, she used to visit with the older woman all the time; but it'd been months, and New York was so big . . .

This stop was fuller, bristling with people and noises and the lingering scent of urine and gasoline. One guy even tried to call out to her—she'd kept walking, not even turning her head.

Grover had offered to come with her today, and so had Piper, Jason, Leo, Hazel, Frank, Tyson, and even Chiron. But Annabeth had said no to all of them—this was something that couldn't be said with a crowd, and couldn't be felt with company.

The stairs out of the subway station were crowded and tight. The railing was covered in something dangerously sticky and mysteriously brown, so Annabeth didn't dare rest a gloved hand on it.

Despite the fact that it was a holiday, the cities of Manhattan didn't seem different in the slightest—aside from a few twinkling lights draped on leafless trees, and broken, giant mechanical nutcrackers, who all appeared to have stopped functioning right when they were in the middle of cracking a nut, their jaws hanging brokenly open. White-brown slush cluttered the gutters and the sides of streets, jammed thoroughly into the cracks in cement, mixing with dirt and weeds.

People cluttered the walkways, cars were practically bumper-to-bumper. Everyone walked brusquely, with their hands in their pockets, or clutching black-screened smart phones—they collided with each other and continued like nothing had happened; a few even knocked into Annabeth.

Still, New York had never felt emptier.

The trip to Percy's old apartment was lengthy; normally, Annabeth would've gotten a cab, or even taken a bus. But as it was now, she felt she was better off walking. She'd always hated small spaces—and they made Percy so antsy he'd practically be in convulsions by the time he escaped. No, she didn't like small spaces, not at all; walking was obviously the better solution.

The apartment building was not as glamorous, not as tall and looming, as it had looked the first time Annabeth stepped inside. It was made of solid brick, but had a steady foundation and a seemingly fire-proof build. There was a unique, arching quality to the roof, something that Annabeth had seen on only a few buildings before.

Funny, Annabeth thought idly, things like this used to make me happy.

She wasn't sure what that even meant anymore.

But, she thought to herself again, that isn't quite true. Happy was sketching late in to the night, fingers and forearms smudged with ink and charcoal, just as the sun began to peek from the clouds, feeling Percy's eyes on her the whole time. Happy was sitting quietly on a boat while Percy pushed them gently along, his fingers creating sloppy patterns in her wind-blown hair. It was the feeling of her heart falling in a wondrous rythym with Percy's—the thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk, and the slight hitch of sleepy breath, drowning out all other sounds and they slipped into unconsciousness, tangled up in each other's warmth.

Annabeth remembered happiness. Even now, she could feel it inside of her, a black, darkly ripped hole, seeping into the atmosphere and disappearing in puffs of white. Because she was not happy, not at all; but she felt where happy should be. Where happy would be, if Percy were still . . .

Her eyes burn and she shoves down the hollow aching (somewhat unsuccessfully) and heads into the swinging glass doors of the apartment-building lobby.

She avoids the elevator altogether, not wanting to be crammed in with single moms and shuffling strangers and screaming kids. On the stairs, it was empty and echoing and lonely and just the way she wanted to feel.

Their apartment was on the third floor, nestled between two much larger, sturdier wooden entrances. The numbers 313 swung carelessly from the center of the splintering wood, looking as if someone had painted it on.

Annabeth brought a shaking hand up to the door, curled into a fist. Suddenly, her throat seized up and she didn't know what to do, exactly. As a daughter of Athena, Annabeth always had a plan. Always.

But up until this point, her strategy had been simple: Find Percy's mom. Tell her what happened.

Simple.

Then, why was it so seemingly difficult now?

Blinking back anxiety and unhelpful words, Annabeth knocked. And knocked. And didn't stop until her arm ached and her knuckles rang with sharp pain, and she pulled them back, now puffy and pink.

The door swung open. Annabeth would've assumed that it was heavy, requiring, from most, both hands and maybe a little elbow grease to pry open. But Percy's mother acted like it was nothing, even when the muscles in her arm twitched and jiggled.

She had her hair up in a sloppy bun, with loose strands dangling around her eyes. Her eyes were alight with ferocity and hope, her hands dusted with flour, her brow streaked with it. Her bottom lip was flaming red, as if she'd been biting it. She wore old jeans and a black apron reading, "And the Iron Chef Award goes to: World's Best Mom!" Percy had gotten for her, just a couple years before. He'd even asked Annabeth if she thought his mom would like it.

And just like that, Annabeth choked.

She can't force the words from the molten-hot jumbled mess in the back of her throat. She doesn't want to meet Ms. Jackson's (or, Blofis, now) eyes, but also can't seem to look anywhere else. The small fire Annabeth had been shocked to notice was extinguished; now she is dim, but somehow still warm. Her mouth curves downward in the corners, but is soft and undemanding. When she reaches toward Annabeth, she is gentle.

And Annabeth shatters.

She collapses into Percy's mom's arms, and in that second the older woman understood why Annabeth had come, without her having to say anything at all. They both cried, so noisily and heavily Annabeth was sure a hurricane could've struck just outside, and it wouldn't have seemed important enough to cause a halt.

Their tears tangle together, their hair a ratty mess. Then slowly, so slowly, they pulled apart. Percy's mom's eyes shone with glaze, and her whole demeanor had changed; the lines on her face jumped from her skin, her shoulders curved in like a question mark, and she looked physically darker, as if she'd dipped herself in grey dye.

"Part of me knew." She sounds so terribly hollow. "How could I not? But I was hoping . . ." She trails off as another, uglier sob grabs her by the throat. Annabeth surges forward, wrapping her arms around the older woman, as if to keep her in one piece.

Percy would want Annabeth to look out for his mom.

So she was going to.

"Christmas Day," she cried into Annabeth's shoulder. "It's Christmas . . ."

"I know," Annabeth cooed. "I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry." She let the silence fall, before she managed to choke out the words, "I want you to know how brave he was. Only he could defeat Gaea, and he knew he wouldn't make it out alive . . . I tried to talk him out of it, tried with everything in me. But he wouldn't listen. He had to be the hero."

Percy's mom untangles herself from Annabeth, wiping her tears ferociously with the sleeve of her shirt, until her cheeks turn bright red. It's exactly what Percy would do, on the rare occasions Annabeth had seen him cry.

"That sounds like my boy." Her voice was watery and shaking, but Annabeth sensed a steel beneath her words, and unwavering strength that she admired so much it made her insides ache. "Why don't you . . ." Ms. Blofis started distractedly, "why don't you come inside, dear? I've made cookies."

Annabeth found herself nodding before her brain had even fully processed the words.

"I hope you don't mind," said the older woman as they walked through the door, "that they're all colored blue."


	3. Stable

Frank didn't know where to sit.

At Camp Half Blood, all of the demigods sat at specific tables, based on their godly parent. Frank had tried to sit at the Ares table, but he didn't know anyone, and he missed his friends. So, after that, he went and sat at the table the visiting Romans had been assigned, for the duration of their time here. All it did was remind him how much everything had changed, how he didn't really belong there, not anymore.

And no matter where he sat, no matter whom he talked to or what he did, all he could think about was Percy Jackson.

When anyone smiled or greeted him, he remembered the way Percy had treated him when he first arrived at Camp Jupiter. Percy was everything Frank, at the time, thought he would never be: charming, funny, strong, and just tough as nails. But Percy never considered himself better than anyone; and, at the Roman camp, that was a rare find indeed.

Everyone at Camp Half Blood was so full of grief, that watching them do normal things like eat, clean, fight, or race was like watching someone swallow broken glass. Frank could've never guessed what an impact Percy had had here. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, as if the air itself would split apart if one of them was too loud. Frank hated the silence, but he also liked it; for anyone to be laughing, joking, even smiling would seem wrong.

Percy, in just the short months Frank had known him, had become his best friend. And now, the mysteriously brave and disarmingly likeable boy, the best person (besides maybe Hazel) that Frank had ever known, was dead.

And it was Frank's fault.

"You okay?" asked Hazel beside him, nudging him with her sharply pointed elbow.

The simple answer: No. Frank was not okay. He was collapsing and dissolving, disappearing before the stars. He wanted to talk to Percy. He didn't want to talk to anyone.

"Yeah," he said instead.

Hazel nodded in a wave of brown curls, and Frank could tell she understood the true meaning in his words. Hazel and Percy had become fairly close as well. He remembered how she'd collapsed into his arms, sobbing out the words, "No, not him . . . Please, no . . ." when Frank had told her about Percy. And all he'd been able to do was stand there dumbly, rubbing her back with his too-big hands and wishing he could go back in time.

"Do you know if Annabeth's come back yet?" Frank asked, trying to distract his brain, even for just a sliver of a moment.

Hazel shook her head again. "No," she answered slowly. "She's been gone for two days . . . And Nico . . ."

Nico di Angelo, Hazel's half-brother, had disappeared into the inky blackness from whence he came after the battle with Gaea. He didn't say a word to anyone. Jason had been the one to tell Nico the news, and Frank hadn't been there; he saw from out a glass window, and even from that far away, Nico's pain had radiated from his features. He'd actually slumped to the wet grass, and, although Frank couldn't hear, he saw his shoulder shake up and down, and knew he was sobbing into the dirt.

Frank hadn't known Nico cared about Percy so much. In fact, he'd always seemed stand-offish, rude and gruff with Percy, even in the rare moments he was kind and gentle with others. But, Frank supposes, he never really knew much about Nico at all.

Now, he and Hazel sat in the stables, their hands twined together and their hearts beating in unison. Of course, this place rang with Percy; his godly blood made him able to communicate with horses.

They were keeping Blackjack, Percy's old and faithful horse, company while no one else could.

Frank hadn't know that horses—or Pegasi— could feel sadness, or be able to display grief so openly.

Blackjack's wings hung low on his shoulder bumps, nearly scraping the filthy stable floor. He hardly ever ate, and the bones in his sides became more and more evident with each passing day. His legs were almost always bent, as if he were preparing to collapse. But he always had his ears perked up, waiting for a call he would never receive.

Frank and Hazel had packed sandwiches and were eating in near-silence. Almost every time they'd visited, the two of them had observed the horses being quiet. It was the kind of thoughtful silence that implied understanding; it was as if they were being polite.

Hazel rested her head on Frank's shoulder, and he didn't move away. His body warmed to her, and he pulled her closer with one arm.

"What do you think is happening to him, right now?" whispered Hazel.

"Nico?" Frank clarified, wrinkling his forehead slightly.

"No," she breathed, "Percy. What's happening to Percy?"

A rock lodged itself in Frank's esophagus, and he _thought Whatever's happening, it's happening because of me._ But he replied squeakily, "At this point, he's already in Elysium, there's no doubt. I'd be surprised if the gods didn't preserve him in the stars forever, after all he's done."

"Do you think he'll choose to be reborn?" said Hazel quietly.

"No," Frank answered immediately, thinking of Annabeth. "Percy's never been much of a perfectionist. And . . . he wouldn't just leave like that."

"You're right," confirmed Hazel. "I just . . . I miss him."

She was nodding into Frank's shoulder and he knew she was drifting. He turned and planted a kiss on her scalp, right where her hair began to sprout. "Me too, Hazel. Me too."

And together, they fell asleep on the cold, concrete stable floor.


End file.
